


Divergence

by ketsi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock and Mycroft get along, every incarnation of sherlock holmes, johnlock but only in the emotional sense, sherlock has a bit of a breakdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketsi/pseuds/ketsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock falls, and Sherlock remembers.</p><p>Sherlock remembers everything.</p><p>---</p><p>DISCONTINUED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It helps to have at least some knowledge of the original text. It helps even more to have seen the tv shows, films and plays.
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by Emberwolf

Falling appears to take longer than it does in reality. Fascinating.

Sherlock has travelled approximately a third of the way to the ground and has already run through all potential outcomes (five, but in reality: two) of the fall. He stops concerning himself with possibilities shortly after.  
And now, with the pavement approaching at a frankly alarming pace, there is something else. Not plans, not memories - something new.  
Sherlock remembers faces he has never seen, but ones he feels a great deal of affection for. He remembers familiar places at the wrong time and cases with subtle differences to reality. He remembers looking in the mirror and seeing someone else.

There are the grey slabs of London's streets, and this will either hurt or it won't.

Sherlock hears John Watson calling out his name in a hundred different voices and, just for a moment, lets everyone else take control of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Probably for the best, Sherlock doesn’t have time to think about what he remembered. There are too many things to do, loose ends to tie up and contingency-contingency plans. He finally gets to the mortuary nearly an hour after he has left the roof. Molly is waiting with a corpse for him, as though nothing in the world is different. Of course, it is.

 

Sherlock looks down at not-his-body on the morgue slab. The lifeless man has had his blond hair dyed and Molly has inflicted some obviously post-mortem trauma to the head. It'll do, but it's a pretty awful likeness and the corners of his mouth pull down in displeasure. Molly's eyes are wide and concerned, and she looks between Sherlock and the body. "I'm sorry - there wasn't much time - I could only get what was available-"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Things have changed." He wasn't expecting Moriarty's gun, and is enraged that he wasn't expecting it. He takes a second to consider the entire exchange, and takes some comfort in the fact that most of it went as planned. Of course, there was the distinct possibility that Moriarty would have anticipated the final outcome, leaving more potential trails and loose ends to be dealt with. "We have another body to deal with." He thinks back to the roof. "I'll need some help bringing it in."

Slightly unexpectedly, Moriarty is still there. Sherlock circles the body, checking for signs of movement, of anyone else's presence. There are no indications that anything has been tampered with, and although Sherlock’s instincts tell him not to trust the situation, something else is telling him that Moriarty never comes back, but that is ridiculous and in the wrong tense, and Sherlock dismisses it angrily.

“Come on,” Sherlock huffs, moving towards the body. “We’ll need to keep this quiet for now. We can’t let anyone know he is dead. Not yet.”

Molly doesn’t say anything, but quietly helps manoeuvre not-her-ex-boyfriend onto a trolley. Sherlock searches the body's pockets - two phones, half a packet of chewing gum, six folded Post-Its from his inside pocket and an empty credit card holder - and keeps everything he finds.

As they skulk their way down to the mortuary with their haul – Molly makes a joke about the roof being so far from the basement, and Sherlock smiles because he really needs her entirely on his side right now – Sherlock runs through new plans. He is fairly certain something is dislocated, but Molly doesn’t need to know that. He is itching to check the notes from Moriarty’s pockets and find out what the puzzle is he has inevitably left for him, because he is fairly certain there will be clues to the identities of the snipers.

By the time they get to the mortuary, Mycroft is there, looking vaguely repulsed. “Oh, splendid,” Sherlock mutters, promptly ignoring him and taking a sudden deep interest in the notes Molly is taking. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes cannot help but notice every detail in a room, and he can’t help but notice that Mycroft is peering at Moriarty’s body with genuine interest. Sherlock turns his back and gives Molly clear, quiet instructions regarding the additional body.

Mycroft checks the time. “You are behind schedule,” he says.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock spits, turning to face him. “Next time I want advice on how to fall off a building on schedule, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

Mycroft moves his mouth in that way that means I don’t want to acknowledge you have spoken, but I have to in order to continue this exchange. “It is best if you remove yourself from these premises.” Everything Mycroft says sounds like a complaint, and Sherlock hates him. “John Watson is currently being examined for a concussion, and I’m sure we agree that it is best for your plan that he does not encounter you.” Mycroft says the words ‘your plan’ as though he has come across something dirty in his mouth, and Sherlock still hates him. “There is a car waiting. I have already had someone fetch one or two of your essentials.”

“Laptop,” Sherlock says, not bothering to make it a question.

“Violin,” Mycroft replies, and Sherlock can’t entirely hate him.

 

~

 

As they are driven through - and out of - London, Mycroft can see Sherlock getting increasingly agitated as passers-by peer at the unmarked but still ostensibly official car. He is bundled up in his coat as far away from Mycroft as he can get. He has a sprained ankle and a shoulder which is nearly dislocated, and really looks in far better shape than he was expecting. Mycroft doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but when you see your brother on a rooftop a certain number of times, expectations become skewed slightly.

Sherlock is thumbing through some pieces of paper, turning them over in his fingers and sliding them one by one into a case. It is obvious from the twitches in his fingertips that he is itching to take out his phone, and Mycroft doesn’t have to read anything on him to know he wants to check on John.

Luckily for Sherlock, Mycroft has kept himself a step ahead in that respect, and pushes his own phone towards him with one finger, open on texts.

 

[08:23] JW removed from scene

[08:51] JW checked for concussion

[08:53] Scene cleared

[11:32] JW released - all OK

[12:06] JW at NSY

 

Sherlock huffs, rolls his eyes and pushes it back towards Mycroft with his palm. Gratitude.

 

It isn’t a long journey by any stretch of the imagination; and Mycroft can remember much tenser trips in a car with Sherlock. He is well aware that Sherlock has not yet told him everything, but if part of his instruction was to be transported home - well, it can only mean truly troubling, life threatening danger.

 

The durationis long enough to make the silence between them feel uncomfortable, but both brothers find it infinitely preferable to each other's conversation. Mycroft surreptitiously watches Sherlock tap non-rhythms on his knees and fret expressionlessly.

 

As they pull up the long, sweeping drive, Sherlock scowls up at the house. It has been a very long time since he has been here. While it wasn’t an unhappy childhood, Mycroft is well aware that there are some uncomfortable memories here. It feels as though he is bringing Sherlock here against his will, rather than under his explicit instructions. Mycroft watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, checking for signs of...well, he isn't quite sure what, but just something. His eyes widen briefly at one point as though realising something, and at another point his right hand lifts slightly, but nothing more. Mycroft idly wonders why he always places so much importance on Sherlock connecting emotionally with the estate.

 

~

 

Sherlock hates this house. It is too quiet, too secluded, and full of hiding places for things. His coming to this house rather than staying at the family townhouse in London was always treated as a penance, although it was never anything of the sort. He mostly hopes that after all these years, everything he had hidden has all been found.

A valet Sherlock doesn't recognise comes to take their things into the house, and Sherlock watches closely as he - English student, originally from Teeside but studying locally, had to re-dye his hair to its natural colour to get the job - picks up the violin case. Of course, the staff have been briefed on him and he wonders idly what lies Mycoft has been telling them.

After a cursory glance over the skeleton staff that the estate is running, none of which he recognises, he quickly decides against interacting with anyone. He sweeps past everyone and into the house, barely pausing to snatch up his violin case.

Sherlock tries not to look at his surroundings as he walks through the house. While he has been reluctant to delete the memories of this place, he had no qualms with putting them somewhere deep and inaccessible.  Unfortunately, being here has caused them to resurface, a little more vividly than he would normally expect.

As he passes the foot of a sweeping staircase, he clearly remembers a screaming row there between himself and Mycroft, just as Sherlock had begun to understand the tells in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft eighteen, Sherlock eleven and able to read exactly what his brother had been up to. He also remembers them making up absurdly quickly, co-conspirators against the world.

The hall towards the library forces another memory on him. Being sixteen and studying for exams, and refusing to understand that other people didn't think the same way he did, he had famously completed a maths exam with all the workings out and none of the answers because they were obvious. After failing several exams in spectacular fashion, Mycroft had taken Sherlock aside in this hallway and explained the concept of beating the exams rather than passing them. Sherlock had defeated them with perfect scores, and it was the last time that Sherlock and Mycroft had been close.

 

Sherlock shuts the door to the library - his library - behind him, hoping to lock these childhood memories outside. He realises that he is unusually tired, and considers that it may not be unreasonable considering that he did fling himself from a roof this morning.

The long table in the library has been stocked with boards and pins and string, ready for case visualisation - definitely Mycroft who has briefed the staff - but Sherlock suddenly feels strangely uninspired by the clues which had so preoccupied him on the journey here.

He pulls the credit card case – plain, unbranded – out and empties the Post-It notes out on the table. Taking a seat, he unfolds them carefully and spreads them out in front of him. The folds are neat and precise, the words on them written in intricate cursive, and everything must mean something – but Sherlock can’t concentrate. The house has gotten under his skin, imposing memories on him which are of no use now, and he needs to check on John or at the very least get hold of his medical notes. He presses his palms together and looks at the Post-Its again, trying to force his mind to behave.

Sherlock remembers being small and his father getting books down from the high shelves –

He slams his hands down on the table, infuriated by the lack of clarity in his thoughts. He leans his head against the back of the chair, and closes his eyes.

 

Sherlock awakes to sudden knowledge of a name and a place, and a deep suspicion as to where he has found it. He knows he has never been to Sudan, but he somehow remembers it; conversations in Arabic - which he never learned well enough to converse like that  - and a meeting with a military leader which doesn’t go well because he can’t help himself, and hearing strangely anachronistic gunfire.

He scrubs his eyes with his hands, trying to make it pass as he would any other disconcerting dream, but it just serves to make it clearer. He remembers swapping information for information and the British military in sorely outdated uniforms and a careful conversation with Arabic leaders and a curiously opulent desert and a picture of the wrong queen.

His head is spinning and it honestly feels as though this will go on forever. Sherlock opens his eyes, expecting to see the library, but everything shifts and the same memories happen again, only this time there are aeroplanes and invasion plans.

There is a shrill beep - something shrill and electronic and nothing to do with sand, and Sherlock releases a breath he doesn’t realise he has been holding. He fumbles and his fingers find cold metal and the world shifts back to normal. Instinct checks the text - daily report from Molly as requested - and the time. He has been asleep nearly half a day.

Sherlock feels vaguely panicked as his mind steams ahead without him. Details are starting to flesh out, beyond his control. Parker, Khartoum, British Foreign Office. There is no evidence besides the artificial memories, and yet Sherlock knows it is true. He feels sick. He needs facts that he can learn for himself.

Mycroft is depressingly habitual, and Sherlock knows exactly where he will be.

 

~

 

“Sudan.”

Sherlock knows that is the word he is intending to say, and he is going to keep repeating it until his mouth makes the right noise. “Sudan. Sudan, Sudan.” He feels like he is speaking underwater, and his voice sounds different every time he makes a sound.

Mycroft’s lips purse ever so slightly and Sherlock knows he has managed to say the right word. “British military intelligence.” The amount of energy it is taking for him to say each word and not fly back to the desert in a hundred different ways is infuriating. He tightens his grip on the phone in his hand - electronic, plastic, tangible - and tries to pull himself into reality so he can watch his brothers face for confirmation. “Information leak.” He sees the microscopic movement in his jaw which means he is shocked. He is right.

Somehow, that makes it all worse.

  
-


End file.
